Last week I had lunch with a friend who told me his father had died rather unexpectedly.

He said that in the few weeks while his dad was sick, before he passed on, they never got the chance to have a heart to heart. How does that feel, I asked.

He told me something we all know: Be ready to let it all go completely when your dad dies. If you have something you want to say or ask, do it now. When the chance is gone, the dwelling can eat you alive.

The thought of talking to my dad in such a deep way feels pretty scary to me.

What if dad doesn’t want to or can’t answer my questions? What if he can’t listen or connect with me emotionally?

The squirrels play with the squirrels

The birds sing with the birds

The kits nest together just under the surface

The mallard male and his wife reign over the vernal pool that forms between the trees

En route to everywhere Neck pillows and roller bags, all the same Some carry duffels And I can’t understand why Eight billion people on this Earth

Overpriced food, uncomfortable seating Long lines, loudspeakers Vacations Funerals Coming Going Visiting family in Ghana

Resolutions, baby. Annual reminders of who I would be if I wasn’t me. I’d be fitter and more productive and ropin’ the moon and sleeping nightly from 10 pm to 6 am and all that jazz.

I am me, though. And I like me. This is not a self-care mantra. I’ve been through that phase and it was useful. Now, I’m just wholly uninterested in dealing with the scoundrel that is self-dissatisfaction.

The first set of 176 emojis was designed in Japan in 1999 by artist Shigetaka Kurita.

🗼Tokyo Tower emoji: this is the second tallest structure in Japan. I had a great view of it from my room in Toronoman Hills🗼

Here’s what I can tell you about Tokyo: things are available.

Would like to sit on the oversized couch and watch you doze off. My feet resting on the coffee table we made from a shipping container.

Would like to bring in the laundry from the back balcony and fold it the way I like so you can refold it the way you like. A sock falls from the line and shows up in the hallway tomorrow.

I’m three weeks into a six-week trip. 32 hours of flying time so far.

Writing to you from Gate 4 of Kochi airport. Waiting.

Waiting for flight 6E6922 to Bengaluru.

Waiting to clear the tangled strands of words clogging a drain in my mind. The same way my hair clogs the drain in my shower. Some water gets through, but the experience is not optimal. You’ve got to clear it out or pay the price for a plumber. I don’t have that kind of mental cash.